


What You Will

by Argyle



Category: Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-11
Updated: 2007-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some tastes are acquired; others are inherent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Will

I sensed Sebastian’s entrance before I saw him, cradled as he was by the doorframe, one arm up to sustain his weight and the other steadied on his hip. He was already dressed; the white linen of his shirt was parted at the throat to reveal a triangle of golden skin.  
  
“Did I wake you?” he asked. And then, without waiting for an answer, “Good. You realize I shan’t allow you to sleep through the best hours. Really, Charles. If you expect to remain here as my most _esteemed_ guest, you oughtn’t give the impression you’d rather be elsewhere. It’s deplorably dull.”  
  
“Not even Paris?” I replied as he approached the bed. And of course Sebastian had often left me to my own devices until well past noon; whether he guessed at how I’d paced my room, and then the space before his own, until I heard the familiar sound of his hand upon the door, I knew not. Neither his eyes, still half-glazed from sleep, nor his posture, set off as it was by the spring in his step, betrayed him. Sebastian simply smiled and drew on his cigarette, much as he did now, a hand on my thigh which rose to pull back the coverlet.  
  
“Especially not Paris.”  
  
“Ah. I fear I am in need of something to fortify my affection for this place.”  
  
“Indeed? And what of your drawings?” Sebastian’s smile grew. Then he swung down to kiss me, his hands gathering the hair at the nape of my neck. I tasted smoke on his lips, dry and ashen, and also the lingering tang of midnight wine. “Really, Charles,” he said again, his breath warm against my cheek. “You _are_ a bad influence. If we don’t hurry, all our plans for the afternoon will be ruined.”  
  
I raised an inquiring brow, but made no reply. Instead, I reached out to pull Sebastian towards me once more.  
  
Then, a little later: “Charles?”  
  
“Sebastian?”  
  
“May I have your attention?”  
  
“To the fullest extent.”  
  
Sebastian stood, straightening his collar, and crossed the room to tip his ashes into an overturned conch. “This is your final warning,” he drawled with a seriousness which failed to reach his eyes. “If you don’t come this instant, I shall be forced to go it alone.”  
  
I pushed up against the headboard. “What is it?”  
  
“Blackberries.”  
  
The word came out like a bird chirp, and just as complacently. The word came out like it was the most normal thing in the world, and it was.  
  
“Where?” I asked.  
  
“In the thicket behind the tennis courts, of course,” he said earnestly. “Mummy always ordered the groundsman to keep the path clear, and Papa ordered him to leave it wild. He said it was good for the hounds – something about natural habitat. There was a dreadful row... I don’t know how the poor bushes ever survived their association with such a quagmire. The gossip alone was surely sharp enough to wilt their leaves.”  
  
I took a breath, but only said, “Is it far?”  
  
“Not far.”  
  
“I’ll not be a moment.”  
  
Sebastian waited for me to dress, his gaze flickering to and fro from the parted curtain. In the morning light he appeared at once youthful and tired: sun hung like cobwebs in his smooth hair, and shadows pooled beneath his eyes, blue and dusty rose. Beneath the window sprawled the open grounds, flora and fauna awash by August sky.  
  
Eventually I tied my shoes, shaved and checked my reflection, and eventually we made our way past the paddock, beyond the hothouse and chapel.  
  
The blackberry thicket was just as I imagined. Each twisting limb hung heavy with fruit, merging here and there to create a lawless mass which belied the closely looming spectre of Brideshead.  
  
Sebastian plucked several flushed berries from the vine, but paused before setting them to his tongue. “Julia and I came here often when we were young, and later Claudia too. She was always the best at finding hidden patches. I don’t know what we would have done without her.” He met my eye, briefly, before continuing, “Bridey never joined us. Didn’t want to muddy his knees, he said. He always did worry too much.”  
  
This recollection, though hardly a confession, filled me with a longing for that which I had never had. I couldn’t imagine an upbringing so rife with possibility: my own home in London had been clean and cold, its corners off-limits to the playful footsteps of children.  
  
I rolled a berry round my palm, savoring the sticky wetness it left behind. “Well,” I said, and swallowed it down, “I am glad your mother lost this particular battle.”  
  
“Are you?” And then: “Do you suppose she did?”  
  
“Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”  
  
Sebastian flicked his cigarette onto the verge. He let out a low, rueful laugh. “Unless, of course, I’m merely a ghost in someone else’s dream.”  
  
“A dire thought.”  
  
“Hmm.” Sebastian popped several berries into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before he replied, “I should think things might actually work out.”  
  
I frowned. “You would trust another in such a way?”  
  
“What makes you think I trust myself?”  
  
With that, Sebastian grasped my scarf, pulling me against him before taking us both headlong into the thicket. The tiny thorns were swift to scratch my arms, but any pain was swiftly subdued by olfactory pleasure: all around us rose up the heady scent of damp earth and vegetation, its vibrancy all the while crested with the sweetness of myriad blackberries. Indeed, so potent was its flavor that I nearly redoubled, clamoring within the deepest memory of bygone years.  
  
And then Sebastian’s mouth was on my own. His tongue wound past my parted lips, and I tasted upon it not wine or smoke, but the glistening draughts of summer.  
  
He worked his hands down the buttons on my shirtfront, and then those of my trousers. I gasped at the feel of his warm, skilled fingers against my hips; gently, gently he freed my hardening cock, smoothed his thumb across the tip, and gave a few swift strokes.  
  
“Whose dream?” I managed, craning my neck forward. Sunlight scattered through the brambles and cascaded over Sebastian’s neck and shoulders, down and down to the small of his back; when he looked up, his face was flushed and grazed by shadow.  
  
“Who do I trust?” came his breathless, laughing reply.


End file.
